


Wreck Me

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Halloween, Japan, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during the infamous 2013 Halloween party night (la da dee da dee, harry is miley)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wreck Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is 100% NOT TRUE OR REAL. Very very made up. FANTASY. FAKE. ETC. 
> 
> Oh also this is the first One Direction fic i've ever written/published. Not brit-picked either. low expectations please!!! comments and concrit appreciated ! 
> 
> Title is partially from "wrecking ball" and then also like "Rock me" because PUNS. 
> 
> tumblr? oh yes! ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com - say hello!!

By the time he and Zayn are finished with makeup, the others have left for the club. They have a drink in the car, straight from the bottle- Zayn taking a fussy sip, trying not to ruin the paint, and Louis going right for it. It's not like it's not going to get messy, anyway. He plans to get truly, truly sloshed tonight. 

"S'all fucked up, mate," Zayn says, reaching out and thumbing a smudge off Louis' cheek, and Louis slaps him away and gives him a wet smacking kiss on the cheek, just because he can. 

Zayn grumbles, pushing him off.  

"Live a little, _bro_ ," Louis says, putting a bit of twang to it, and he already feels it under his skin, a hot prickle- God, he wants to get so _fucked up_. He feels itchy. Eleanor's already at the party- she texted him twenty minutes ago _where are you??? hurry xx_ and Louis is excited for that, to see her, but he can't stop feeling itchy. 

Zayn's looking at him like he knows what Louis is thinking. 

"Calm down," he says, slow and doubtful, just as the door opens and their security guard reaches out a hand for them. "You look wild, Louis." 

_Fuck off_ , Louis wants to snap, but he just gives a big toothy grin, slips out of the car. He's hustled right in, no autographs, which he appreciates.  

And then he's on his own. The club is hot- steaming already, and the music is thrumming under his feet, even though he can barely hear the actual melody. Just the beat. For a split second he feels intoxicatingly alone- no one has recognized him yet under the makeup, and the anonymity is incredible, it makes him tingle.

But Zayn crashes into his back a moment later, yells into his ear, "Let's get drinks, bro!" and with the two of them together, people start to notice. He's not halfway to the bar before someone hands him a beer- uncracked, a nice touch. He couldn't drink it otherwise. Wouldn't do to have one-fifth of One Direction getting date-rape-drugged at a random club in Tokyo. 

Zayn takes it from him and cracks it open with his hand- one of those Bradford skills they always give him shit for- and Louis takes a grateful gulp, yanks out his phone and texts Eleanor- _here! it's mad can't find anyone. where are you xx_

He's barely sent it when he sees her, leaning against the bar and sipping from a glass of something clear. She's bouncing her head to the beat, and when he screams her name she turns, painted face lighting up in a grin. 

She screams something unintelligible, and he wraps his arms around her neck, her skin hot. 

When he pulls back Zayn leans in, gives her a one-armed hug. 

Louis offers her the beer. 

"I'm alright," she yells- they have to, it's so bloody loud. "Vodka tonic?" 

He sips it gratefully, lets her nestle under his arm and lean back against the bar, looking out at the crowd. 

"This is mental!" she says into his ear, mouth wet and close. "I've been in the library literally all week!" 

He just grins, squeezes her shoulder. 

"You seen Harry?" Eleanor says next, and Louis shakes his head. 

"He looks so fucking hilarious." She's laughing into his neck. Louis feels hot all over, the sweat beginning to gather under his armpits and down the line of his spine. He needs to be more drunk. 

"Yeah?" he says back, not really in response to anything she's said. He fishes into the vodka tonic with two fingers and puts an ice cube down his shirt. 

She says something about Gemma and her dress getting torn and something else that Louis can only half-hear, and he turns back to the bar, says, "A shot?" 

Her eyes light up, gamely. They pound three each, Zayn laughing next to them and then tripping into the crowd, pulled by a few tiny Japanese girls with mouse ears and sparkly pink circles on their cheeks. Louis' starting to feel it now- the music feels closer but sounds further away, and the sweat is starting to flow freely. He's sure his makeup is half-ruined. Eleanor's still looks good, and he tells her so, but she just wrinkles her nose uncomprehendingly. He's either slurring or she can't hear him. Maybe both. 

She rolls off the bar suddenly, mouths _Toilet!_ and slips off through the crowd. 

Like it's a cue, or something, that's when Louis sees Harry. He's dancing in the middle of a crowd, and Louis' first instinct is to laugh. Christ, he actually did Miley. He's been threatening it for a few weeks now, but no one actually thought he'd do it. Gemma probably encouraged it, she's awful like that, and the hair is definitely Lou's handiwork. 

Harry catches sight of him and his face breaks into a huge, stupid grin. One of his arms lifts until he's subsumed into the crowd again. 

Louis takes another shot. 

\---

By the time Harry makes his way over, Louis is properly drunk. Eleanor's still gone, and Harry collapses into him in a boneless hug, his body thrumming. 

"Eurgh," Louis complains, because Harry is flushed and sticky with sweat, and Harry just grins. Now that he's closer, Louis can see the tripped-out, dark pupils of his eyes, his mouth bitten-red and full. 

"The fuck're you on, mate?" Louis yells, into Harry's ear, tweaking one of his little pigtails, and Harry just sucks a sloppy kiss into his neck, laughing, breath hot. 

Louis jerks away, but his movements have gone all fumbly with booze. Harry slips an arm around his waist, says, barely intelligible, "Take a shot with me?" 

The bartender pushes two shotglasses across the counter like he's heard. He pours them out, says, "Tequila," and sets a lime wedge down on a little white plate. 

"Yesss!" Harry says, shaking a little, all over, like he's cold, somehow, in the middle of this steaming club. "Yes!"  

Louis shouldn't, probably. It's barely one AM, and he's well on his way to a massive hangover. But sod it all. It's their last night on tour, their last night on Japan, their last night together like this. Plus, if there's one thing Louis Tomlinson can do well, it's tequila shots. 

"Shots for everyone! On me!" Harry roars, shockingly loud, and suddenly they're in the middle of a crowd, everyone watching, laughing, shotglasses in hand, the bartender frantically pouring out whatever he can. Harry is preening under the attention, lifting Louis' hand to his mouth and dragging his tongue over the web between thumb and forefinger. Louis resists the urge to jerk away when Harry delicately puts salt over the skin, yells, "To us! To _Japan!_ " and- of course- everyone screams it back at him. 

Louis watches him take the shot, lick the salt from his palm, feeling oddly numb. Harry looks up after, his eyes shining and says, "Do me!" 

Sometimes Louis wonders if Harry has ever known what it's like to not get what he wants. He can't imagine it. 

He does it, of course. Harry's skin tastes like lotion and he smells like sweat and alcohol and sweet. Louis knows that smell, that taste, and he has to shut his eyes as he knocks the shot back. When he opens them, though, Harry's still there, watching him. He's smiling a little softer, not so manic, and he says suddenly, "Love you, Lou," and buries himself in Louis' neck. 

"You too, mate," Louis says, his throat tightening with the remnants of the tequila, bitter and oddly satisfying. 

Harry pulls back, says, "Come- come outside?" He won't make eye contact. "Not outside I mean. Back room. Niall's smoking. He wants - we. We should go there." 

Louis agrees, if only because Harry looks like a strong wind could take him out. They make their way through the crowd, Harry giggling and taking pictures with people and sticking out his tongue when people scream _Miley!_ at him. 

A couple of tall, burly men take a look at them and nod them on by, and they end up in a dark deserted stairwell. 

"Basement," Harry explains, pointing downwards, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. It's a bit cooler in here, and Louis watches as he shivers in those tiny gold pants. He deserves it, the hussy. "Niall's in the. You know." 

"Basement," Louis supplies, swaying a little. "You alright, mate?" 

Harry just smiles at him. 

"Maaate," he says, dragged out, and his eyes slip shut again. He gives another shiver. 

Louis can't help it, he steps in a bit, puts an arm around Harry's shoulder. Harry nestles into him gratefully. 

"I'm cold," he says, soft and slurred. 

"Cos you're wearing nothing but pants, you idiot," Louis chides, and Harry pulls back a little. His head is listing to the side, but his eyes are open, clear green, and his face is serious. 

Louis laughs to cover up the tug in his stomach. "Mate, I can't take you seriously in those bloody pigtails." 

Harry's smiling now, playing along. One of his hands is on the small of Louis' back, five fingers spread wide against his shirt. They are still standing very, very close, and Louis has to remind himself of the myriad ways in which Harry is a Very Bad Influence. 

"I quite like them," Harry says, giving a cheeky grin, dimple popping up. "I feel like- a whole new man." 

Louis just laughs. He moves to pull away, and Harry makes that little pout that means he's displeased. He tugs Louis back and the air shifts, tangibly. 

Harry suddenly seems very naked. 

Louis is used to that, honestly he is, but it hits him out of the middle of nowhere sometimes- the long lean expanse of Harry's body, dark ink over flushed skin and his gangly arms and his soft lower lip, eyes shining knowingly in the dim coolness of the stairwell. 

This is the exact situation that Louis needs to immediately extricate himself from. He knows where this goes, because it's gone this way about a million times before. 

Harry arches off the wall and says Louis' name and he sounds so quiet, almost stern, like there's no use in fighting it. 

And then he very gently pulls Louis in and kisses his mouth. 

It's soft and oddly chaste, considering their history; Harry tastes like tequila and his mouth is warm, slow. Louis' hands drift to Harry's waist, helplessly. 

Harry opens his mouth and lets Louis in and it's horrible how easy Louis is, how weak his will is when it comes to this. He shouldn't- _he shouldn't,_ he knows he can't, but saying that to himself just makes the whole thing feel even better, sickeningly good, like scratching an itch until it bleeds. 

Louis is trying to grow up, he's trying to be better. Harry keeps fucking dragging him down to this place where it all _feels_ so good and he doesn't have to think. 

God, he's pissed. He's tired. Harry makes a soft sound into his mouth and sprawls back against the wall, pulling away and looking at Louis' face. His expression is hungry and soft and pleased and it gives Louis honest-to-God terror, deep in his stomach, because he can't imagine ever, ever saying no to that face.  

"We should fuck," Harry says, his voice hoarse from screaming, and as he says it the door at the bottom of the stairwell bangs open. 

Louis jerks backward like he's been burned, swiping a palm over his mouth. His hand is shaking, he notices distantly. It's no one they know, at the bottom of the stairs- two men murmuring in Japanese, the smell of thick bittersweet smoke drifting up to where they're standing. 

Harry smiles at the men as they pass, tipping his head back against the wall, and then looks back at Louis, carefully thumbing face paint off his lips and laughing a little, sheepishly. But it's too late, the moment is lost, and Louis is level-headed enough- finally - to deny Harry this thing he wants. 

"Lou," Harry says quietly, his pink mouth free of white paint, and Louis shakes his head, takes a step back, then another, until he hits the opposite wall of the narrow stairway. 

"No," he says. His head is starting to ache, a deep throb in his temples. He wants to find Eleanor and take her back to the hotel and sleep next to her and be _done_ with this, this stupid thread between them he can't fucking snap. 

"Louis." 

"No, no, fuck off," Louis snaps, glaring at him. Harry looks about two seconds from putting on a pitiful expression, which makes Louis' fists curl. For a split second he wants to smack the look off Harry's face. 

He breathes out, doesn't bother hiding the venom in his voice. "Why can't you bloody well accept that I don't _want_ you?" 

Harry's face goes stricken. 

"Because you do," he says, a moment later, swallowing visibly. 

"No I don't," Louis says, teeth baring in a near-snarl with the words. "Yeah, I might want to fuck you, if I'm really pissed and you're parading around half-naked, but I don't _want you_. It's not about you, Harry, not every bloody thing is about you." 

Harry's bottom lip is starting to wobble. He looks strung-out and tired and young. Louis fights down the protective clench in his chest, because Harry knows exactly what he looks like, knows exactly what he does to people. It doesn't mean it's an act, but it does mean Louis can't let it sway him. 

"You drive me mad," Louis says, and it comes out so, so weary. "I can't stand it." 

He looks down. Harry draws in a breath to say something and Louis' phone buzzes in his jeans pocket. 

He digs it out, feeling sickly guilty, because of course it's Eleanor. 

_whre r u babe? com danceee!!! xxxxx_

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, and when he takes off up the stairs Harry doesn't follow. 

Louis forces himself not to look back. 

\---

He gets spectacularly drunk and so does Eleanor and they end the night pressed together in a car back to the hotel, Zayn passed out against the window. Eleanor has her head tucked under Louis' chin and she sounds half-asleep when she says, "Thanks for bringing me, babe." 

Louis stares at the back of the seat in front of him, his blurred-out vision making it seem darker than it is. 

"Yeah, no, thank _you_ , babe," he says, dumbly, and she giggles.

"Love you," she mumbles into the side of his neck, and it feels good to hear it, feels good to whisper it back. Good in a _proper_ way- not in that sick squelching feeling of pleasure and disgust he gets when he thinks of Harry. 

Shit. He closes his eyes. 

He has a room to himself in the hotel, but when he opens the door he hears a low sound from within, and Eleanor shrinks back a little. 

"What is it?" she asks. "Someone in there?" 

There's light spilling faintly from the door of the connected hotel room - it's partly ajar. Louis knows it's one of the boys who's got the next room, but his stomach still tightens up with needless fear.

"Stay here," Louis says, taking a step inside, and Eleanor lets the door close silently behind them and stands against it, wide-eyed. 

He swallows hard, walks over to the door, carefully inches it further open. 

The light is from a lamp on the bedside, dim and golden, and Louis can see shapes moving on the bed. He blinks, and it swims into focus. 

It's Harry. 

He's on his back, sideways on the bed, and there's a bloke with big shoulders and dark hair and tanned skin between his legs, Harry's long skinny bare legs, slung around this man's waist. Harry's hair is undone and spilling sweat-curled and dark against the white sheets and he is being fucked, he is fucking, the man is fucking him. 

Louis' breath catches hard in his throat, but it's inaudible under the hoarse, rhythmic groans coming from the room. 

He can see Harry's face and the expression there- pain and satisfaction and that same kind of sick, wild pleasure Louis used to feel when they shagged- makes him shiver. Harry is flushed pink all the way down to his throat and he has one arm flung back and fisted in the sheets behind his head, like he's barely holding on 

When Eleanor touches his shoulder Louis nearly jumps. 

She peeks past him, muffles a laugh in Louis' shoulder and pulls him back inside, carefully shutting the door between their rooms. 

Louis' skin is prickling, and Eleanor kisses his jaw and says, "He's such a slag," sounding amused and fond. 

"Yeah," he forces himself to say, swallowing acidic-tasting saliva. "He really is." 

She goes into the bathroom, comes out with a wet towel and starts scrubbing the paint off her face. Louis just sits at the edge of the bed, pretends to be checking through his phone, but his mind is racing. He can still hear the thump-groan, thump-groan of sex next door. 

Eleanor crawls into bed, kicking off her shoes, the duvet shifting under where Louis' sitting. She tugs at it, and he half-stands so she can pull it up. 

"Only Harry Styles could wear a bloody Miley Cyrus costume and actually pull someone," she says, muffled into a pillow. 

Louis laughs. 

"You comin' to bed, babe?" she mumbles. 

"Yeah, yeah, just, in a minute," he says, staring down at his phone. 

He feels caught, right then, _stuck_ \- one choice sleeping behind him in bed and the other behind that door. He knows that's not how it is, that Harry isn't a real choice, Harry is a one-way ticket to pain and suffering and stupid, needless angst that will fuck up the band and the future and Louis' dignity. He knows because it's happened before, he knows because it's how Harry is, he can't help it. 

Still, part of him _wants_. 

In the end he chooses properly. He crawls back into bed, he does the right thing.

The other room is silent now, and Louis is glad for it. It's easier that way. 

 


End file.
